Between Two Worlds
by Wandering Khajiit
Summary: Morrígan is powerful necromancer, whose magic is incredibly unstable. Her answers lie in Markarth – but what she finds there turns her life upside-down, leading her to a Hagraven's den, a vampire's castle and barely any answers. Kharjo stands faithfully by her side, but friendships fray when curiosity becomes obsession. [M for violence]
1. The Block

**Disclaimer: Every character, place, religion, culture, and philosophy is created by Bethesda.**

* * *

**1. The Block**

_Pain._

_It's all you can feel._

_The way to the city is a long, agonising ride, making it feel as though you have been on the road for years. Your mother is constantly by your side on the carriage, watching you closely with her vigilant eyes. But the even the hostility that emanates from her cannot prepare you for the events that are about to unfold._

_The magic stirs within you, and the only thing that runs through your mind is death. You're entwined with it, like no other. It is a part of you. The cold, soulless feeling is sweet and weightless, and you close your eyes, leaning back into the leather seat of the carriage._

_Your mother shifts, and you breathe in deeply, sinking further into the soft seat. The leather has a strong smell to it, like warm spice, and your head lolls to the side, away from your mother. It feels like an age since you have slept soundly, and despite your fatal destination and better judgement, you close your eyes._

_The dream is instant, and one you know all too well. You're running as fast as you can through a thick jungle, with trees as tall as mountains lining the familiar path. The sky above is covered by the large leaves of the jungle, and despite the shade they provide, the air is hot, thick and humid. You notice yourself slow down, this humidity dragging you back deeper into the jungle. You are beginning to feel afraid, and it is this fear that pushes you forward, steps heavy but hurried._

_The trees begin to thin considerably, and you soon find yourself standing near the edge of a large desert. You turn to the jungle behind, surprised to see that it is barely a dot in the distance. The air around you is now dry, and a gust of wind causes your arm to automatically shield your eyes from the stinging sand._

_Once it passes, you notice the necklace around your neck warm on your chest. You're stunned. It's not like you to wear any jewellery, and you are sure it wasn't there moments ago. But now you have noticed it, the chain feels heavy around your neck, and you look down, taking the large pendant in your palm. The metal glows, and its heat warms your hand. Stepping forward, you begin to walk out onto the desert, no longer feeling afraid. You are confident, warm, and loved. The pendant is taking you somewhere; taking you to something._

_And it feels like home._

* * *

The shock of waking up was difficult. As the Imperial carriage lumbered down the road, the wooden wheel hit a small rock, surprising Morrígan awake. There was the sound of heavy hooves and wildlife, and it took the small woman a moment to acclimatise to her surroundings. Everything was blurry from her deep sleep, and the warmth and comfort of the dessert and pendant were still fresh on her mind.

Absently, she brushed her chest with her bound hands, looking to the front of the tiny wooden carriage. They were the second in line, the first full of Stormcloak soldiers. A man sat in the driver's seat, just by her side, steering the slow, lumbering steed down the path. Even from behind, she could tell by his armour that he was an Imperial.

As she looked down the stony road again, Morrígan knew without any doubt she was home. The cold air, blinding sun, towering trees and mountains were all too familiar. Nothing had changed, and she knew exactly what this meant for her.

With a heavy shudder, she tugged lightly at the rope that tied her hands. They were bound tight, she realised, looking down. A cloth was also tied around her mouth to prevent her from talking, and with this realisation, her breathing picked up its pace. It wasn't long before the panic set in, and she quickly glanced to the people she was sharing her imprisonment with – three men, two of them Stormcloaks.

She looked to the man who wasn't a soldier, and noticed the fear was reflected in his eyes too. Where were they going? Did they already know who she was?

The carriage came to a curve in the road, and the man in front of her looked up. His eyes were smoky, the tired lines underneath them common for a hardy soldier like him.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake." The other two occupants looked between them, and he continued, blonde hair falling into his eyes, "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that imperial ambush, same as us."

She frowned. As the man continued to talk, engaging the other passenger, she looked back out over the countryside. Memories flooded through her, of rain, snow and utter loneliness—an experience of Skyrim she had not missed while in Cyrodil. For the life of her, she did not know why she chose to come back to this forsaken place. She was on the border before she knew what she was doing, running through the forest with innocent and ignorant thoughts of home.

And then, just as she crossed into the Skyrim countryside, she was kicked in the back of the head by an Imperial. She remembered the flash of red armour, her magic not fast enough to stop the foot colliding with her skull.

A shiver down her spine stopped her thoughts, and she furrowed her brow, turning around slowly. Beside her, cold blue eyes bore into hers, and she recognised the face instantly.

Ulfric Stromcloak.

She looked at him evenly, noticing the same binds around his mouth as her own. He did not take his eyes off her, and she wondered if he remembered her. Morrígan was different from her child self, her brown hair now darker due to years spent in caves and movements through the night. Without a doubt though, the most noticeable change, and one that had terrified her upon realisation, was her eyes. Once a deep, ocean blue, they were now the colour of ice. Clear, emotionless, with the pupil the only colour; it was obvious her dark magic was washing away all of her soul.

His eyes bore into her, and the man before Ulfric addressed him, somewhat carelessly.

"What's with him, huh?"

"Watch your tongue!" It was the one who had spoken to Morrígan before. He was looking at the man in rags, disgust on his face. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stromcloak, the true High King."

The other man exchanged a terrified look with Morrígan, before breaking into a frightened spiel. She sat there, looking back over at Ulfric. High King? She knew that the war had been a very hot topic for some time, but she didn't realise just how intense it must have gotten.

Ulfric turned back to her, and they continued to stare at each other. The other two were still talking, heated voices drifted here and there through her mind. Morrígan had always liked Ulfric – after all, he could have killed her instead of banishing her out of the land. And it wasn't like he could have ignored her mother's pleas – she was a powerful woman, and one every Jarl in Skyrim wanted on their side. Banishing her daughter was sure to keep her happy.

She turned away, looking down the road again. City gates loomed ahead, and she recognised where they were immediately – Helgen. She remembered going there as a child with Bothela. Her cackle had scared the many residents, and even as a seven-year-old, she found it amazing that one person could have such a profound effect on so many.

Now, those memories of Bothela just reminded her of the fear she had felt as her mother had dragged her out of the Markarth gates and into the carriage. Why wasn't Bothela there then? She had her ear to the ground all the time – it came with her job – so why hadn't she warned Morrígan about her mother's cruel plan?

Shouts from soldiers drew her attention, as the carriage rolled slowly through the town. The Stormcloak in front of her muttered something about the General. She ignored him, fear bubbling in her stomach. With more effort than her last attempt, she tugged at the rope binding her hands. It was useless, though. Once she was free, what was she expecting? The guards just letting her run away?

Her head fell down to her chest in defeat, and the carriage rolled to a slow stop. Directly in front of her was a chopping block, blood dried thick on the surface. A man stood beside it, large axe in his hand. If it weren't for the gag, Morrígan was sure she would have whimpered.

The soldier in front of her looked up to the heavens, then back at her. "Let's go. Wouldn't want to keep the Gods waiting."

The Gods. Yes, those amazing beings who had only been there to break her soul. She shook her head, standing up and shuffling off the carriage with the others. A million thoughts were running through her mind now – why did she come back here, why did they want to kill her, how was she going to escape this...

Her name was called by one of the Imperials, and she stepped forward, walking over with the other prisoners. As she stood there, she noticed the warmth on her chest – similar to the feeling she had in her dream. It was terrifying that she was about to die, yet... she was calm again. Her heart slowed, and she watched with little emotion as a Stormcloak was thrown down onto the block.

"My ancestors are smiling at me Imperials. Can yours say the same?"

The executioner lifted up his enormous axe, and time seemed to slow. It stayed there, suspended above his head, before lurching down with all the might the giant man could muster. The Stormcloak's flew off, and all calm Morrígan felt was instantly banished from her. Her knees weakened as the Imperial Captain flung the body aside with her boot, before calling Morrígan forward.

As she stepped towards the block, a strange sound rang across the valley, and all parties looked up to the heavens. Some remarked of hearing the sound again, and she couldn't help but feel an unwelcome sense of foreboding.

The captain called her again, this time with more impatience, and one of the Imperials coaxed, "To the block, Prisoner. Nice and easy."

She glanced at him, nodding once. Her aim was to show no fear, but as she walked forward to the block, her knees began to weaken. She stood there, staring down at the bloodied wood for a moment, before the captain pushed her down into the block. Morrígan fell to her knees, head forced down. So she had come to Skyrim to die. It was fitting, she didn't deny that – but she could think of a lot of other things she would rather be doing.

She looked up at the executioner and the sight beyond him caused her heart to stop.

She could barely believe her eyes, but the screams from the prisoners and townsfolk behind her confirmed it.

It was a dragon.

As the man raised his giant axe, the beast circled around, landing on a tower directly behind him and throwing the executioner off balance. Morrígan wanted to move from the chopping block, but she was frozen with fear, staring up at the enormous beast.

And then, as the giant lizard opened its mouth in a shout, she fainted.

* * *

He had severely underestimated how far it was to walk. Every step was becoming increasingly difficult, and again, he had to stop, putting down the prisoner and pausing. They were at the Guardian Stones, he realised with relief. It wasn't far now. He sighed, sliding down to the ground with his back against the cool rock. The attack on Helgen had left him sore and very, very confused. If that was a dragon then, what was too happened to ... well, everything? He didn't find it a coincidence that it attacked right before Ulfric was thrown on the block, though that didn't make the thought any better. If that man had a dragon, the whole Legion and Empire was surely doomed.

Banishing this solemn thought from his head, he looked down to the sleeping woman. He was sure she would have woken by now, but he didn't really mind. He was just glad that he was able to get someone out of there safely.

Realising she was still bound, and mouth still gagged, he inched forward and untied her. He really hoped she wasn't dangerous. He looked at her again, noticing the severe black war paint streaking from her eyes to her neck. She didn't look friendly, and her eyes when he called her name back in Helgen were definitely not trustworthy. But surely she would realise that now was not the time to kill him; especially considering he had just dragged her halfway across the hold.

He hesitated, looking at her closed eyes. She was a witch, he knew it. He never really hated them, but it was bred into every Nord to be wary of those who took the path of Magic.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, Hadvar noticed her stir, eyes blinking slowly as she awakened. With a groan she heaved herself up, looking down at her now-free hands and then touching her mouth. She stared at him, her icy eyes sending a shiver down his spine.

Despite his uncomfortable feeling, the woman smiled. "Thank you."

Her voice was delicate and soft, and he couldn't help but frown. That was not how he was expecting her to sound. He hadn't _actually _encountered a witch before, though, and there was no reason to think they weren't people. Yet, he always just thought that the magic ate them away, until they turned into those insidious Hagravens.

"That is alright, prisoner. We're heading to Riverwood."

To his surprise, the lady blushed, looking out at the river below them. He could feel her growing distant, and recognised the look in her eyes instantly. Skyrim was her home, and she had missed it. The rivers, the mountains, he noticed, were all reminders of her past. Every Nord clung to this land, and they always returned. He had seen that look many times.

"It's Morrígan," she said, finally turning back to him. "I – "

She hesitated, glaring down at his armour. He immediately understood.

"It's okay," he chuckled, holding up his hands. "I would not have dragged you this far just to throw you in jail again."

She seemed to soften at this statement, leaning back against the stone behind her. Coincidently, he noticed, the Mage Stone.

"I need to get to Markarth," she continued. "It's my home."

Hadvar nodded knowingly, his suspicion confirmed. "I understand. But you should really rest in River—"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "I need to get to the nearest town and get a carriage. It's been a ... long time."

She rubbed her head, feeling silently thrown. What was she going to do in Markarth? What was she even doing here? She sighed, standing slowly. The man in front of her followed in suit, glancing down the road.

He pointed. "The nearest town is Whiterun, through Riverwood. It is not far, but the night is setting fast. You may want to hurry."

She nodded, looking at him. She couldn't even begin to express the wave of gratitude she felt towards him, but standing around repeating thank you was not going to get her anywhere. And he was right – the night was setting in fast.

"Thank you. I... Uh, hope we meet again."

With that swift – and awkward – goodbye, Morrígan ran down the road. She felt vulnerable, and extremely cold, as she wore nothing but the prison rags on her back. All that could wait, though. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she knew if anything, Markarth was going to give her the answers.

* * *

**Authors Note: Chapter one done (lame ending, I know)! I'm sorry about how boring this must have been for some of you, but I really had to set the whole story. I don't want to rabbit on, but just a quick note – the rest of the story isn't going to play out the same as the game. Otherwise it would be too boring and you should really just be playing the game. This is also something to give me a break from uni and my original fiction, so updates may be inconsistent (I'll try my best though). Ok, that's it, thanks for reading and reviews are welcome :)**

**- WK**


	2. The Companions

**2. The Companions**

"A giant?"

His eyes appeared above the book that was hiding his face, glinting with mockery. It was late at night and the mead hall of Jorrvaskr was alive with movement as all the warriors converged for something to eat and drink. There was not a seat to be free, and she felt slightly jealous of her shield brothers and sisters that were readying to bunker down in the warmth while she had to go outside in the cold of Whiterun.

It appeared that Vilkas was having the same thoughts, as so far he had made no effort to move since she bought up the task.

She sighed, folding her arms and throwing him a disdainful glare. "I do not wish to hear your words of wisdom, Vilkas. Will you join us or not?"

The word 'us' had come out of her mouth hesitantly, and he did not miss it, much to her discontent. Unfortunately, 'us' didn't exist yet – she had only just heard of the giant tearing up the Whiterun countryside, and most of the Companions had already drunk too much mead to head out into battle. Vilkas, naturally, had not touched a drop, reserving such delicacies for more 'celebrated occasions' – which, Aela had noticed, were yet to come.

Milk-drinker.

"I would not have to join you if they stopped building their farms near giant camps," Vilkas answered, lowering his book just in time to catch Aela's lethal glare.

"There are septims to be made, brother." Vilkas' eyes shifted and Aela followed his gaze, turning around to see Farkas and Ria behind her. The giant man moved his watchful eyes to Aela, face emotionless as always. "We will join you, Aela."

Aela nodded, turning back to Vilkas with a satisfied grin. He shook his head in response, raising his book again and muttering about 'better things to do'. She decided to hold her tongue, not wishing to argue about the validity of books when there was a battle to be won. The two could lose themselves in such a disagreement and the trio had to hurry to Pelagia Farm before any civilians were hurt.

Farkas and Ria were already armoured, thankfully, and without any more delay they left the warmth of the mead hall, stepping out into the cold of Whiterun. The entrance of Jorrvaskr looked out over the expanse of capital city, and Aela could see that most of the town had settled in their homes for the night. The only real movement were from the city guards, who dawdled lazily around, probably cursing the Divines for fating them with night watch. Aela could not agree more, and she broke out into a light jog towards the city gates to try and warm her frozen bones.

The three said nothing to each other on their trek down to the farm. It was unsurprising – Farkas was never one for conversation, and Ria was new to the group and had so far said barely five words to Aela in her time there. For a while Aela had thought that Vilkas had been training her too hard, as she had not seen the new recruit for days after she had joined. After some inquisitorial work, though, Aela had found that Ria was just shy and when not training, she was found in the living quarters alone. As innocent as that was, it made Alea slightly uncomfortable to not know about the Shield Sister who was supposed to be guarding her back.

As the trio continued to jog down the path, the sky rumbled above. Flashes of lightening lit up the countryside, throwing the giant into clear view ahead of them. As they entered Pelagia Farm, Farkas unsheathed his giant sword, Aela and Ria following in suit. The hilt was cold in her hand, and she welcomed the familiar wave of adrenaline that coursed through her veins from the weight of it. Readying her shield, she charged at the giant, catching her sword in the knee on the beast.

It roared, stumbling backwards and arms failing around wildly. Aela held her shield up to her chin, preparing for another strike when, to her absolute surprise, the beast collapsed. The shock of the giant colliding with the ground shook the earth, and she dug her feet into the dirt to steady herself. Ria collapsed beside her at the force, and once the ground had stopped shaking, she turned, helping the new girl up with one arm.

After some time, the dust settled around the giant's corpse, and Aela noticed a woman standing some metres down the path that she had not noticed before. With a confused look and a quick nod to Farkas, they walked towards the figure warily. Any woman that could bring down a giant on her own was one to be cautious of, yet also one Aela could not help but respect. If friendly, she would make for an able Shield Sister.

As they stepped up to her, the sky rumbled again and the first few drops of rain started to come down. It felt like cold needles on Aela's arm, and she looked to the woman, noticing with horror that she wore nothing but rags. Looking at her, Aela couldn't help but shiver, vowing to not complain about herself being cold again. At least her armour offered her some kind of protection to Skyrim's weather.

The woman put up her hands submissively, noting the weapons the three Companions had drawn. Aela tilted her head to her Shield siblings and at once they all sheathed their weapons.

The woman's eyes moved to each of them, before settling on Aela. Even through the rain and the night, Aela could tell that there was an unnatural glint to her eyes.

"You handle yourself well," Aela said with more confidence than she felt. "You could make for a decent Shield Sister."

"Shield Sister? You're Companions?" The woman glanced behind her, before turning back to Aela. "I need to get to Makarth."

"It is a bit late for that, my friend, and you look like you need some rest." Aela stepped up to her. She was close now, and Aela could see that her iris was so pale it may as well have not been there. It was unnerving, but the woman had shown no hostility towards them so far, and she was not comfortable leaving her out in the cold. "Come back to Jorrvaskr and join us; we have clothes, bed and drink. No journey is so urgent to deny this."

She wasn't wrong. It felt as though Morrígan had been wondering the road for weeks now, and it had only been an afternoon. In that time she had seen wolves, bandits, and even occasionally a dragon circling overhead. Tiredness had not hit her yet, but that was probably due to her prolonged sleep after Helgen and the cold air and rain – which, to her immense discontent, had followed her from Riverwood to Whiterun.

The rain began to pour down, leaving her with no reason to refuse their offer. Nodding, Morrígan began walking towards the city with the three. She had never been to Whiterun before, but she had heard about the Companions. Their tales of heroic valour were ones that the children in Markarth acted out during playtime when they were younger, taunting each other with jests and wooden swords.

They group were at the city gates now, and the man travelling with them pushed open the large doors. The woman who had spoken to Morrígan earlier addressed her again as they entered the stony capital.

"My name is Aela, and this Farkas and Ria."

"Morrígan," the witch said, extending her hand to each of them.

"You know of the Companions?" Aela asked. Morrígan replied with a nod. "Before we enter then, you may have to test your worth to us."

"To you?" Morrígan asked hesitantly. She knew enough about the Companions to know that magic was definitely not welcome there. Perhaps she could decline their hospitality and stay in the inn – it would save her the trouble of joining and the embarrassment that was to come along with it. "I'm..."

She hesitated, looking from one to the other. For some reason saying the words was increasingly difficult.

"The Path of Magic is my strength," she said, relieved to hear that it sounded considerably more tolerable than 'I'm a necromancer'.

Their reaction was predicted: eyes avoiding contact and lips forming a thin line in disapproval.

Aela exchanged a quick look with Farkas before frowning back at Morrígan. The words she spoke next were chosen carefully. "It is not for us to decide who joins. You should speak to Kodlak Whitemane."

Morrígan wrung her hands nervously. They were outside Jorrvaskr now – an old and ancient hall. It was beautiful, towering over them with the smell of the Skyforge above wafting down to their position. She looked up at the giant doors, inspecting the engravings in the wood of dragons and warriors, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. The old building reminded her of Markarth, with its towering dwarven structures and intricate engravings. When she was young, she would wander the city, just inspecting the architecture and wondering what stories the buildings must have seen in their years. She was sure Jorrvaskr had many interesting tales as well.

Aela opened the doors, and the four were assaulted by such noise that Morrígan was sure she would go deaf. The residents had enjoyed the rain it seemed, taking it upon themselves to cosy up and get as drunk as possible. Aela noticed that Athis and Njada were at the centre of the noise, taunting each other with insults and preparing to brawl. Farkas bristled with curiosity, jogging over to join the crowd.

"Come with me," Aela said, leading Morrígan down to the living quarters. She felt very uncomfortable about the whole ordeal – so far she had no problem with the woman, her magic of no concern to her – but it was Vilkas' reaction she was worried about. He was never one for new recruits, and _especially_ not one for mages. He never actually told her why, but she knew there was more to it then the natural wariness of most Nords.

Ria separated from the two, heading towards the bunks. Aela could see Kodlak down the hall, sitting in his usual chair with a cup in his hand and talking to ... Vilkas. She sighed.

As they walked forward, Vilkas looked up, raising one eyebrow and smirking at her. She ignored him, addressing Kodlak who was regarding Morrígan with curiosity.

"A stranger, Aela?"

Aela folded her hands behind her back, straightening herself up. "This is Morrígan. She wishes to join us."

"Would you now?" Kodlak turned to the witch, who smiled at the old man's kind face and voice. "Here, let me have a look at you."

Aela watched as Morrígan stepped forward into the light. She could see Vilkas' eyes widen at the sight of the witchlet's irises, but Kodlak did not flinch. In fact, the old man smiled, mumbling to himself about the girl's strength and spirit.

Aela smiled to herself as Vilkas folded his arms defensively.

"Master," he said, looking to Kodlak. "You're not truly considering accepting her?"

"I am nobody's master, Vilkas." Kodlak regarded him for some time, before turning to Aela. "I'm sure you have a reason for bringing her, Aela."

Morrígan looked to the warrior, curious to hear what she had to say for herself. Aela spoke, voice strong with honesty, "This woman took down a giant by her own. Her strength in battle is incomparable."

"And what _is_ your strength in battle?" Vilkas countered immediately, eyes moving suspiciously over the newcomer's form. "I see no weapons on you."

Morrígan shifted uncomfortably, looking at the man before her. He was no presence next to Kodlak, but beneath his armour she could tell that he was strong, and this, along with his fierce attitude, made her uneasy. His amber eyes seemed to stare straight through her as she looked at him, and she could feel her confidence wavering.

"I'm ..." She looked to her feet, unable to help the shamed blush that spread from her cheeks to her chest. "My strength is magic."

Vilkas snorted, silence descending on the group. Morrígan was certain she would fall through the floor with embarrassment. She knew that the man who had helped her escape Helgen had been a coincidence – people in Skyrim had not changed towards mages one bit. And this man, Vilkas, was proof of that.

Finally, the old man beside him spoke, breaking the silence and addressing Morrígan. "If what Aela says is true, then there is a fire burning in your heart. Vilkas, take Morrígan to the yard and see what she can do."

Vilkas looked as though he wanted to protest Kodlak's choice further, but quickly quietened when the old man threw him a disdainful glare. "Aye. Out in the yard. Come on."

Morrígan stepped aside, letting the man walk past her. Following him, she couldn't help but feel uncomfortable without Aela by her side. She had no idea what 'see what she can do' meant, but from Vilkas' attitude so far, she wasn't particularly excited to find out. As they walked up the stairs into the mead hall, she received some judgemental looks from the Companions who had not yet called it a night. She could not fault them for this though – after all, she was still in rags _and_ a newcomer.

Vilkas held the door open for her. The cold night air cooled her still blushing face, and as she walked out she was relieved to notice that it had stopped raining. He stepped down the stairs, now standing in what was obviously the training yard. Archery targets lined the back wall, and the space where he stood was wide enough for those training with melee weapons.

Morrígan stepped in front of him as he unsheathed his sword and readied his shield, looking at her evenly.

She stood there, arms hanging limply by her side in defeat, realising what he wanted. "My magic isn't like this," she said flatly. "I really should not be here. I.. I will stay the inn."

She turned, feeling beyond ridiculous. What was she even doing here? By now she could have hired a carriage and at least been a third of the way to Markarth! Not that she had any gold to get her there ... But, she was sure someone would have a coin purse just lying around. They wouldn't miss it, and her sneaking skills had been getting rather rusty. It was about time she practiced again.

"Not so fast." Vilkas reached out, grabbing her arm and causing her to spin around. "The old man wanted to see what you can do. Show me."

She stared at him, unsure what he wanted from her. There weren't exactly any dead bodies around, and she was sure no matter what the old man said, _that_ was never going to sit well with _anyone_. Fortunately, though, with her necromancy she had dabbled a little in conjuration, and years of surviving alone had made her an incredible healer. Hopefully showing him those skills would prove her worth.

With a nod, Morrígan readied her hands. As she willed her nerves away, she felt the familiar and liberating rush of blood. Keenly aware of everything around her, she called upon the very essence of her soul, picturing the healing process – broken bones repairing beneath her touch, blood disappearing and cuts closing. Morrígan pushed her hands forward, touching Vilkas on the chest with the tips of her fingers. The spell encompassed him, and he looked down, bewildered to see the gold aurora light his body. He felt ... incredible. Any feeling of tiredness or exhaustion he had seemed to leave in seconds. He was so calm that she could have pulled a knife on him and he wouldn't have even noticed.

Carefully, Morrígan stepped back from him, breaking the spell off slowly. If she had done it too fast, his body would have gone into shock – a mistake she had done on herself one too many times. He watched her, and she smiled, closing her eyes and continuing her charade. This was the easiest one, but she hoped for her sake Vilkas was prepared for it.

Throwing her hands up, then bringing them down, Vilkas turned to watch the flame atronach appear through a dark portal by his side. He stepped back, dazed, as the daedra hovered next to him, completely within her control.

He looked at Morrígan. "Can you get rid of it?"

As quickly as it appeared, Morrígan banished the daedra, leaving them alone in the courtyard once more. He nodded, slightly impressed, and sheathed his weapon.

"I can see how someone of your talent could be ... _useful_." The last word was cautiously said, and she knew that he was still uneasy with the prospect of her joining them. At least he wasn't attacking her about it though. "Let's get you some clothes and a drink. Tomorrow, we will train together, work on your form. It can never hurt to know how to swing a sword."

She sighed. She could see Vilkas being a real pain in her future, but right now she was just happy to get something to eat and wear some proper clothing. As they went inside, Morrígan looked back at the courtyard, noticing the rain cascading down once more. Shaking her head she closed the door, hoping that by the time they started training tomorrow, the weather would be a bit nicer.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about this super long chapter ... Also I wasn't really happy about it, beginnings are always a little rough for me to write. Anyway, thank you for reading this far! New chapter will be up soon**


	3. The Truth

**A/N PLEASE READ: This is more for my readers already, but just a note: as I've continued writing the story, I realised the Companions won't be in the story as often as I liked. So I suggest if you were reading this, hoping for the Companions and an adaptation of their storyline, this isn't the story. I'm really sorry for the misleading information, and if you continuing reading, thanks for your support!**

**WK**

* * *

**3. The Truth**

Vilkas did not like Athis.

He never had, and at first, Skjor had found slightly amusing. Vilkas' wit and sarcasm was sharp in every conversation exchanged between the two, and constant entertainment for anyone nearby. There was nothing Skjor enjoyed more than a clever and well-placed comment; however their hostility towards each other was progressively becoming more intense of late. In fact, if Skjor was correct in his time-keeping, it seemed to have really come to a head when Morrígan arrived.

The night the witch had bedded in Jorrvaskr, the tension was so thick you could have ignited it with a match. The Circle had their regular meeting – mainly for Aela's benefit – to talk about their new recruit. Vilkas, of course, was quick to express his suspicions, Aela immediately jumping to her defence at every opportunity. Skjor began to wonder if she was defending her just because she was a woman, but as the disagreement – which soon turned into an all-out argument – progressed, he realised it was much more than that.

Aela saw something different about her; and astonishingly, Kodlak agreed.

The argument ended in a mess, Vilkas having to leave the forge to 'get some fresh air'. He disappeared for a week, and in that time, Athis, unexpectedly, had stepped up to the witch, extending his hand in friendship and taking upon himself to train her. She had been ridiculously clumsy with the sword her handed her, but the Dunmer was an expert, and patient at that, testing her carefully and eventually handing her a Skyforge dagger.

She was a natural. In all Skjor's years, he had never seen somebody wield a small weapon in such a deadly manner. She had managed to impress all of them.

All of them expect Vilkas.

Upon his return, he was livid to see the witch still there – though the term 'witch' was being used very lightly these days. Athis had worked hard in making sure that she wasn't excluded in any way, and if that meant replacing her magic with might, then so be it. Skjor didn't have any idea why he was so determined to help the girl. He and Aela had mused that maybe he felt just as excluded in the Companions as she sometimes, but this was just a theory.

The girl seemed to enjoy the elf's companionship, and if Morrígan was displeased about his efforts to replace her magic, she made no inclination towards revealing this. In fact, she drank up Athis' one-handed lessons greedily in that week, sometimes spending from dawn to dusk with him in the courtyard.

Aela had relished in telling all this to Vilkas, almost immediately upon his entrance into Jorrvaskr. Skjor wasn't sure if it had been in jest, or if Aela was really expecting Vilkas to be happy that the girl was making progress; either way, none of them were surprised by his reply.

"Of course the elf helped the _witch_."

The words were harsh and filled with malice. Skjor had rolled his eyes, returning to his cup indifferently; very similar to the way he had done this morning when entering the dining hall.

Unfortunately, this time, acting indifferent was not working for him. Watching Vilkas shoot Morrígan and Athis yet _another_ glare across the hall, Skjor slammed down his cup, startling the Nord and receiving his full attention.

"Let it go, Vilkas," he growled.

The first response that swept through Vilkas' head was 'no', but he was not a child. Honestly, he had no idea why he had not let it go yet. He was a mixture of emotions – he was annoyed that Athis had stolen his trainee in his absence, yet at the same time he did not want to train Morrígan. There was something about her that was ... And that was the problem. He didn't know what it was about her. He just did not trust her, at all, no matter what anyone told him.

Returning to his meal, he could feel Skjor's eyes boring into the side of his head. Gods, he was acting so foolish. He might as well give her a go. He had woken this morning to clear skies, and now toyed with the idea of taking her outside himself to test out her arm.

Shovelling the rest of his breakfast in his mouth, he pushed his plate away, readying to head over to Morrígan. As he stood, two strong hands forced him back into the chair.

"The skies are clear today, Shield-Brothers!"

Aela. He turned, looking up at her beaming face. She was bristling with energy, and he knew exactly what that meant.

"Not today, Aela. I have... business to attend to."

Aela looked down at Vilkas, frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. They had not really spoken since their argument, something which was very out of the ordinary. As much as they disagreed, their issues where forgotten the next day over a hunt together or a conversation over mead that usually lasted from afternoon to night.

Letting go of his shoulder, she stepped next to Skjor, who was already beginning to stand.

"Who comes?" he asked, towering over her.

"The Circle. Expect, of course, Kodlak and –" She glanced at Vilkas. His eyes were once again on Morrígan, and she could not help but frown completely this time. " – and Vilkas."

At the sound of his name, his head snapped up to look at her. Noticing the concern on her face, he smiled reassuringly. It was a rare event, Vilkas smiling. A life of hardship and battle had hardened him into a strong and capable warrior – physically and psychologically. Any emotion he expressed was a genuine gesture.

"Do not worry, Aela," he chuckled. "I'm taking the girl out today myself. See what the elf has been teaching her."

"Really?"

The cold voice startled him, Vilkas' head turning so fast his neck was sure to snap. Morrígan was standing before him, arms folded and eyes suspicious as she regarded his form. Her defensive stance stirred something deep within him, and before he knew what he was doing, he rose from his position, towering over her.

"You have concern?" he asked, challenging her.

She sneered. She had not warmed to Vilkas at all, and since that night she had 'proven her worth' they had religiously avoided each other. She didn't mind, pleased to find that Athis was ready to train her and keep her company.

It was all good, using a dagger and pretending. But she was beginning to falter – the magic within her was stirring, and her heightened emotions towards Vilkas roused her. She clamped her hands shut, trying to calm her beating heart and reduce the pounding in her ears as she looked at him. It was useless, though; you could sheath a sword, but magic was no way near as easy.

"I'll get my things."

She jogged away from them, more flustered than she had ever felt, sweeping down the stairs into the living quarters. She was relieved to find the bunk she stayed in free of the others, and sat on her bed, head in her hands. She focused on her breathing, keeping it even and steady, yet her mind was wandering.

Over the weeks, Morrígan began to question her position here. The longer she stayed, the more daunting her quest home to Markarth appeared. Skyrim was a lonely and cold place, and however unwelcome she felt in Jorrvaskr, she knew it would be nothing compared to the road that lay ahead of her. Yet, it was no secret that she should not be here.

She reached around, snatching her leather boots beside her bed, slipping them on her feet and grabbing the laces. Even the dressing of armour felt unnatural to the witch. Perhaps, in another life, another plane of existence, she would have been a true Nord. Perhaps she would wear armour and drink mead instead of wine, and feel welcome in Jorrvaskr. Perhaps, she would never have picked up that book.

_The book_.

Morrígan's hands balled into fists, the laces of her boots pressing against her palms. She hadn't thought of the book in years, and yet, that was why she was here, wasn't it? That was the answer to all her questions – why she wasn't a warrior, why Markarth was still so far away from her, why she didn't want to go home ...

Given the choice again, Morrígan would never have picked up that book in Bothela's shop. She remembered finding it, hidden under the counter on the bottom shelf next to the poisons. That should have been her first warning; however as a girl who had just seen her twelfth cycle, she was curious. Grabbing it greedily, she sat at the table with a candle, excitedly reading and drinking up the illustrations. Bothela had taught her the importance of knowledge, and she was already a third through the skill book before the old alchemist had noticed.

"_Careful, child – that is a door to darkness that no one should open."_

Then door of the shop opened, and that was it. As Bothela turned to address the customer, Morrígan slipped out of The Hag's Cure and continued to read the book in the Shrine of Talos, her usual haunt. It was almost always empty, save for the strange elf that would sometimes scour the building with his bodyguards.

Laces tied, Morrígan pinched the ridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, sighing audibly. The past was the past and it was too late to think of 'what if's'. The spell she had learnt from that book was as natural as breathing to her, even from its first time of use. She did not doubt it was her destiny to find that book, however horrible that thought may be.

Morrígan finally made her way to the armoury, stepping over to the table in the corner. Daggers lay neatly in front of her, ranging from iron to the legendary Skyforge steel. Hesitantly, she picked one up, turning it in her hands and wondering how well it would go against Vilkas. Perhaps if he had his back turned...

"Get yourself a real weapon," a voice behind her ordered. Morrígan spun around, surprised to see it was Skjor behind her. "It's safe to say Vilkas will not go easy on you, sister."

She placed the dagger back on the table without a word. Skjor stepped forward, grabbing a sword off the weapon rack, along with an iron shield off the floor. He held them out to her.

"Thank you."

The hesitation was evident in her voice, and Skjor smiled. The new ones were always so afraid.

"If in doubt, raise your shield," he offered.

She nodded, gripping the handle on the shield tight and walking out of the armoury. She thought about heading back and grabbing her dagger, but she noticed Vilkas at the door that lead back into Jorrvaskr. His eyes glinted wolfishly, and she bit her lip uncomfortably, stepping up beside him.

"Let's go," he barked.

They made their way out to the courtyard without another word, taking their respective places opposite one another and raising their shields. Morrígan tensed her arm, but she could feel her weakness with it already.

"You're good to go?" he asked, as they circled each other slowly. In the distance, she could hear the other Companions leaving Jorrvaskr for a hunt. It was just her and Vilkas now, and this thought made her exceptionally uncomfortable. She nodded cautiously. "No magic this time, witch."

His words were filled with malice, and fuelled his first strike. With a cry he lunged forward, his sword above his head and aiming for Morrígan's chest. She barely had time to react, carelessly throwing her shield in front of her yet not bracing herself for the impact. With all the Nord's force, the blade collided with the shield. She felt her arm buckle beneath the attack, the plate of metal and wood flinging back into her face.

Vilkas lowered his sword, and she dropped the shield and her weapon, clutching her face. Blood poured out of her nose, between her fingers, and she watched with watery eyes as Vilkas sheathed his blade and grabbed her shield and sword from the ground.

He shoved them towards her. "Take it."

Horrified, she looked at him. Did he really expect her to continue?

He noticed her look and growled unpleasantly. "You think someone who is trying to kill you would care about a little blood? Take the shield, witch."

Morrígan knew that if she quickly healed herself, it would only make him more irritated. She turned her head away momentarily, spitting what could have been a tankard of blood on the stone ground. Ignoring her headache and the dull throbbing in her nose, she turned back, snatching her shield and sword from his hands with a venomous glare.

She steadied herself this time, but to her surprise, Vilkas did not draw his weapon. He looked her up and down, before shaking his head and grabbing the bottom of her shield forcefully.

He guided it up, until her bent arm was level with her shoulder and she could not see him past the shield.

"When you see someone ready to strike, you hold your shield here. Keep your arm steady, and follow the direction of their attack. You will buckle, but –" he poked his head around the side of her shield, grinning sheepishly at her bloodied face "– you'll avoid any accidents."

He let go of the shield, and Morrígan lowered her arm, frowning at his still-smiling face. Was Vilkas really joking with her?

"Thanks," she murmured.

This time the man broke out into a bark-like laugh and she was unable to hide a smile. Once his excitement had died down, his eyes locked onto hers. For a few moments, the two stood in a comfortable and respectful silence, smiling slightly at each other.

This touching moment was short-lived, however, as a female guard came running into the courtyard, screaming at Vilkas. He cast Morrígan a bemused look as the guard stopped in front of them, gesturing towards the city gates beyond Jorrvaskr's walls.

"The Jarl is requesting your help, Companion! There is a dragon at the Western Watchtower!"

Vilkas raised his eyebrows in disbelief before regarding the woman suspiciously with folded arms. Morrígan felt her blood run cold, sheathing her weapon and stepping forward.

"You're sure?" she asked.

The guard stared at her, and she could see through the helmet slit the blue eyes of the woman flicking from her bloodied face to Vilkas.

"Yes, I'm sure."

It wasn't the guard who had answered, to their surprise, and Morrígan looked up to see a female dark elf approaching them. She walked with authority, and self consciously Morrígan quickly cast a healing spell, fixing her nose and hopefully washing away most of the blood.

"Ireleth," Vilkas addressed, his tone most unimpressed.

The woman did not miss this, clicking her tongue impatiently and answering, "It was not my wish to ask for your help, Companion, but the Jarl's. There is no time to debate this."

Vilkas nodded in reluctant agreement, stating that they would meet Ireleth and her guards at the tower. Morrígan followed him out of Jorrvaskr's gates, jogging down to the Wind District. The civilians mulled about, and Morrígan was glad the presence of the dragon west had not reached the town just yet.

"Now it's time to show me what you can do, witch," Vilkas called out to her.

"What I can do?" she scoffed, annoyed that he insisted on calling her witch. "You've shown me nothing so far. Athis has done more for me, and you were supposed to be my trainer!"

He didn't answer, but he did pick up speed, sprinting towards the main gates of Whiterun and heading down the path. Morrígan found it difficult to keep up, but didn't give in. She dropped her shield by the stable, aware it would be useless wielded by her in a fight against a dragon, and turned right down the fork in the road. The watchtower loomed ahead, but to her surprise – and relief – no dragon.

The two stopped beside a bush, and Vilkas turned to her, rage lighting up his eyes. All respect and comfort they had felt around each other earlier was gone, she realised, as he jabbed his finger into her chest.

"I did not train you, witch, because you are not a Companion, and you will never be. You and I both know that."

She stared at him, aghast, trying to find something to say – yet there was nothing. He was right, expressing the thoughts she had had in the living quarters but an hour before. Jorrvaskr was her procrastination, a home to stay as she avoided her return to Markarth. She knew once she got there, the answers she would find would make or ruin her. Morrígan was already a weak spirit and was not willing to take the chance to find out – so she stayed in the mead hall, pretending to be a Companion, pretending to have a purpose.

Vilkas waited for her reply, but upon receiving none, grunted satisfactorily. "I don't know why Alea or the old man want to keep you here, but so long as they do, I have no say in where you sleep."

He began jogging towards the tower again, and Morrígan stroked her forehead. Vilkas had only confirmed what she already knew, and she couldn't keep denying herself. In Jorrvaskr, she was an outsider, restless without the use of her magic. She had to leave, make her own way, and now was as good a time as any. After they dealt with the dragon, she would head back to the mead hall, grab her coin and supplies, and take the carriage to Markarth.

When Morrígan had finally made her way to the watchtower, Ireleth and her group of guards were not far behind. Vilkas came out of the ruined building, jumping off a crumbled stone column and landing in front of the witch. He addressed Morrígan but raised his voice so the elf housecarl could hear.

"The guard in the tower is expecting the dragon to return. He's ... He's the only one left."

Morrígan shuddered. Athis had told her about the destruction left by the dragon at Helgen, and she did not have much confidence that this one would be any more considerate.

"Should we go back and get the other Companions?" Morrígan asked, casting her eyes over the singed grass and decrepit building around them.

"There's no time," came Ireleth's voice, deep with adrenaline. She drew her sword, looking towards the sky. "The beast comes!"

Morrígan followed her eyes towards the clear sky above. In the distance, before the mountain range, was the giant shadow of a dragon. It soared towards them at an incredible speed, circling around the tower and opening its mouth in a whirlwind of fire.

Vilkas raised his shield, and Morrígan took cover under a rock, gripping her sword as the land ignited around her. Her heart beat furiously, drowning out the cries of the guards and the roar of the dragon. Her sword felt steady in her hands, but she could feel the pull of her magic in her. With all her will, she pushed her unpredictable powers away, standing up and facing the beast as it crashed on the ground before them.

"Thurri du hin sille ko Sovngarde!" it growled, swishing its tail left and right.

The guards dove forward, swords slashing the scaly skin, causing the dragon to roar in pain. It turned to a guard, eyes ablaze, and the man froze before the giant beast, unable to uproot his feet from the ground. The guard screamed in agony as the dragon snapped his jaws around the man's body, and the beast lifted his head and shook the body in his mouth around like a rag doll.

The guard was then thrown, landing with a disgusting shatter next to Morrígan. She stared at it in disbelief, dropping her sword to the ground and crouching next to the body. It was unless healing him though, she realised as she grabbed his wrist. He was well and truly dead.

The dragon let out another angry roar, and Morrígan looked up, freezing at the sight before her. The dragon's eyes glinted dangerously towards Vilkas, snapping at him haphazardly as it tried to get a grip on him. He cried out as the beast breathed out, flames igniting his armour and his raised shield.

Before she stop herself, Morrígan turned to the dead guard's body beside her, raising her hands to the sky. Relief flowed through her, blood cooling at the magic she released. The body before her began to glow a dark blue, lifting itself up off the ground as if guided and tugged by strings. It groaned, turning towards the dragon and intercepting the beast's snapping jaws that were reaching out to Vilkas.

It took some time before Morrígan realised what she had done. She had not meant to do that. After all that time, keeping her magic under control, it was finally unleashed. Why did she _do_ that?

Vilkas roared in anger at the sight, turning and sprinting towards her before she could register what he was doing. With all his might, he collided into her small frame, and the two toppled over, rolling down a hill behind them. Once stopped, Morrígan blinked, working hard to regain her senses when she felt Vilkas' hand wrap around the collar of her leather armour. He picked her up effortlessly, swinging her around and throwing her up against a tree.

He pulled out his sword, pressing it to Morrígan's cheek. Blood mingled with her purple war paint beneath his blade.

"That was a mistake, witch," he snarled, eyes glinting with murder.


	4. Kharjo's Liberation

**4. Kharjo's Liberation**

Auroras. The beautiful ribbons of gold and green light laced the fading night sky, circling around the two setting moons. Birds were beginning to awaken from their slumber, signalling the start of Morndas and the rise of the sun. They danced around in pairs on the field of snow, before setting to the skies with a loud chirp at the sound of footsteps on the nearby path.

Zaynabi fell back from the steady walk of the main group, stepping up beside Kharjo. The Khajiit merchants had just left Dawnstar, breaking their schedule by about two days early. They had wanted to stay – they sold quite a bit in Dawnstar, due to the lack of city walls cutting them from the civilians of the town – however, they were plagued all night by vivid and ghastly nightmares. Exhausted, the four had agreed it was probably best if they just moved on to Riften by dawn.

Zaynabi's sapphire eyes glittered as she grinned cheekily at Kharjo. "Something that is white."

He kept his steady walk, barely glancing in her direction as she settled next to him. "Snow?"

Of course, he knew he was right. Ever since Kharjo had joined the caravan, he and Zaynabi had passed their time with an 'I spy' colour game that they had overheard Nord children playing outside Riften some time ago. Zaynabi's contribution to their activity was limited though, as she could never quite get past the white of the sands here.

She laughed, breaking his train of thought and lifting a small purple bottle to her lips. Aware that his pale eyes were trailing her every move, she looked directly at him, taking the bottle from her mouth and tilting it in his direction.

His lips formed a thin line of disapproval as he shook his head.

She scoffed. "One day you will remember it is a part of our culture."

"This one does not need to be lectured on culture, Zaynabi," he hissed, turning his eyes to Ahkari and Dro'marash ahead. He kept his gaze firm, refusing to look into her taunting eyes.

"You are redeemed, but you have lost touch." She looked down at the Skooma in her hands, annoyed that he had refused her yet again. Ahkari had told the woman to leave him alone countless times, as she could tell it annoyed Kharjo to no end; but Zaynabi was nothing if not stubborn. "You seemed tense upon leaving; this will help."

His eyes flickered towards her, so fast that she barely noticed it, before they were firmly set on the backs of their companions again.

"If I cannot recover from a nightmare by my own, friend, this Khajiit should not be guarding a caravan."

His words were sure and true, and Zaybani sighed. "Damn." Corking the bottle, she slipped it into her pouch, disgusted that she believed his words. She enjoyed his company, more than anyone else in their caravan, but she often found that they disagreed more than she would like. "Khajiit still does not like your attitude."

Her muttering made him smile, and he looked towards her. The sun was now high in the sky, the snow across the tundra laced with a hypnotic golden glow. Her fur shimmered in the morning light and she glanced towards him, tail flicking mischievously when she noticed his gaze. She could never stay angry at him, and he hated arguing with her, despite the fact that she loved forcing him to do things she knew he hated.

"Something that is the colour green," he quipped, keeping his eyes on her.

"Hmmm." Her eyes glittered playfully, tongue flicking out between her teeth as she thought. She looked around at their surroundings, eyes finally settling on Ahkari. She turned back to him with a proud grin. "Ahkari's dress?"

He frowned, finding her answer unexpectedly obscure. "No."

Her shoulders slumped in immediate defeat, yet she continued to scan the landscape. The snow beneath their feet was starting to thin, thankfully. Kharjo was still trying to get used to the cold land of Skyrim, with its weather and temperature that not even his fur could protect him from. He missed being able to pick up his sword whenever he wanted without having to worry about the burn from the cold steel.

"Grass!"

He looked at Zaynabi. That hadn't been the answer he was looking for – in fact, when he had asked the question, there was no grass to be seen – but he was happy to hear it.

"Close enough," he chuckled, relieved to see the absence of snow on the ground ahead. The path twisted further on, completely illuminated by the sun now. Riften was still far away, and he hoped that Ahkari would let them all rest by noon. The nightmares from last night had left Kharjo beyond fatigued and he was starting to lose his senses because of this.

She seemed satisfied with this answer, smiling to herself and keeping a light jaunt beside him. He wondered where she got her energy from when he recalled her bottle of Skooma. He sighed, remembering that only a year ago a drink would have been his own answer to the exhaustion. Kharjo was glad to have the past long behind him, but watching Zaynabi bounce around with energy was not making it easy. The road ahead was dreary and he was _so_ thirsty.

"Why have they stopped?" Zaynabi asked suspiciously, breaking his train of thought yet again.

Kharjo looked up, surprised to see that Akhari and Dro'marash had indeed stopped. They stood next to an overturned carriage, rugs thrown carelessly out of the broken wooden structure. Ahkari fell to her knees, crawling into the carriage as Dro'marash drew his sword, looking at the approaching pair.

"There is a chest," he said, answering Kharjo's confused frown.

Zaynabi climbed into the cart behind Ahkari and began speaking to her in excited yet hushed tone. Kharjo walked a little further down the road, drawing his own sword and looking around for any signs of an ambush. It was useless in his exhaustion, however. The sword was heavy in his hands and his shield arm ached from carrying it for so long. He shifted on his feet, willing the two women to hurry up and move – staying still for a prolonged amount of time in Skyrim was incredibly dangerous upon the return of the dragons.

Paranoid by this thought, Kharjo walked off the path now, the soft earth a comfort on his knees. He loved his armour, but all this walking was making him realise how uncomfortable it really was. The ground before him began to slope down and he noticed the sounds of a river ahead. Jogging so that he wouldn't be away from the others for too long, he arrived at the bank, sheathing his sword and falling to his knees. He cupped his hands together, dipping them in the water and lifting it to his mouth greedily.

He sighed, delighted. The water was cool and refreshing on his tongue, and just one sip had lifted his spirits. Reaching into his pouch, he grabbed an empty bottle and dipped it in the crystal-clear river, filling it to the brim. Skyrim's river water stayed cool for a day at least, and predicting the walk ahead, he knew he would need it later.

Splashing his face one last time, Kharjo stood, leisurely walking back up to the group. Something made him stop halfway up the hill though, ears twitching instinctively. He turned slowly, frowning.

_Strange_... He was sure he had heard something.

Though he saw no one around, Kharjo withdrew his sword, spinning in gradual circles.

There was definitely nothing there. His frowned deepened. Was his overwhelming tiredness causing hallucinations?

_No_, he thought. _That's ridiculous_. He began slipping his sword back into its cover when a cry stopped him.

"Kharjo!"

_Zaynabi_.

For a moment he was frozen, ears ringing with her voice, but a cold hand brushing the back of his neck bought him back to reality. He felt the hand wrap around his necklace and tug, but he had no time to stop the pickpocket. Running as fast as he could up the hill towards Zaynabi's voice, he felt his necklace pull back, chocking him momentarily before the final _click_ as it broke against his neck. He didn't turn to see who it was, stumbling to the top of the slope and scanning the scene before him feverishly.

Dro'marash was crouched next to a visibly distressed and horrified Ahkari. He looked up on Kharjo's approach without a word, but his disappointed eyes said it all.

Kharjo ignored the other man, jogging over to the body of Zaynabi. She sat, legs out before her, clutching her left thigh in her hands and gasping. He knelt down beside her, noticing the blood that was seeping through her fingers and pooling on the ground.

Kharjo dropped his sword, grabbing her two dainty wrists in each hand and tugging them up slightly. She gave into him and lifted her hands away, exposing her wound.

He swore. The cut was deep – so deep that he could see her bone. If they didn't fix it soon, she would pass out from the loss of blood.

"Do we have a potion?" he asked, grabbing a dagger from his boot

Kharjo then grabbed the hem of her bloodied dress and cut a large patch off, leaving not much to the imagination anymore. She watched as he carefully peeled back the rest of her dress, folding the rag neatly before looping it tenderly around her thigh. She hissed in pain at his touch and he looked up, alarmed.

"They took all our supplies," she answered him, unable to hide the disapproval in her voice. "Where was this one? You should have been here."

Zaynabi whispered the last words, yet they still held a harsh note. Kharjo looked up from her wound, holding her gaze steadily. Was she really trying to argue with him about this? He had saved this caravan more times than he could count on his claws! Sometimes, even by himself! He never received thanks or any gratitude, and now, the one time he had slipped away, she was ready to blame him?

"You're tone might be lighter," he spat through gritted teeth, working hard at containing his rage.

"This could have been prevented, Kharjo! Another warrior –"

"Your tone!" He tightened her dressing in one sharp motion, clenching his fists. She winced in pain from the force of his tightening, but he felt no sympathy. He was annoyed that he had shouted, as Ahkari and Dro'marash had now looked over.

"Where were you?" Dro'marash asked, unable to help himself.

Kharjo's ears pressed against his skull, and he hissed menacingly. Perhaps he was feeling so defensive because he knew, in his heart, that they were right. However he was too tired to toy or acknowledge this thought. Instead, Kharjo's mind strayed back to the battle, and his hand flew to his neck. In his haste to help Zaynabi, he had forgotten about the filthy pickpocket that had stolen his moon amulet! His rage escalated, and he hoisted himself up, grabbing his sword and dagger and sliding each one into their respective places.

"Where are you going?" Zaynabi, asked, surprised. She had not seen him this angry before, yet she doubted it had been because of what she said.

Kharjo ignored her, turning and walking down the path. He paused at a wooden sign, squinting at the faded writing before crouching to the ground and grabbing a clump of dirt that had been pressed down by a footprint. He sniffed it as his ears worked overtime to try and catch any unnatural sounds travelling up the path.

"Kharjo!" Zaynabi had used all her effort to stand, hobbling over to him and falling down next to him. "Where are you going?" she repeated with a wince.

He turned to her, blue eyes filled with anger. "They stole my amulet."

_Amulet?_

"This one can't leave us," she gasped in disbelief. "Look what happens without you."

He brushed her off with an aggressive wave of his hand. "Hire another to do you dirty work."

Her eyes widened, horrified at his overreaction. "You're stupid amulet means more to you than our safety?"

His fists clenched at her words, a low and menacing growl escaping his throat. The wind blew softly through the trees, and he caught it – the same smell from the footprint in the dirt, coming from the south. It was safe to say that the pickpockets – bandits, if he was right in his suspicions – would be near here. He couldn't imagine them travelling far for an ambush.

He stood, ignoring Zaynabi as he adjusted his armour, flinging his arms back and forth and rolling his neck. He was now completely alert, blood rushing with adrenaline. The thought of leaving this dreary life and finding his amulet excited him. His time was over with Ahkari – he appreciated her help two winters past, but his dues were paid. Perhaps, when he finally found his amulet, he could return home...to Elswyr.

He began to walk, but Zaynabi lashed out, hand wrapping around his ankle. "What of our friendship?"

Kharjo looked down into her pleading eyes. He felt himself falter, and sighing, he bent down next to her.

He cupped her face in his hands, trying to appear as reassuring as he could. "This one will be back for you."

"Just don't go," she insisted, hand tightening on his ankle.

"This one has to." He reached down, prying her hand from his ankle. She held tight, before resisting with a sob. He felt himself falter again as he doubted his actions, but his words left his mouth before he could stop them. "Being a guard is a thankless task, Zaynabi. This one must go."

And without another word, he turned, running against the faint wind. He knew that if he had stayed with her any longer, he would never had left. But somehow, this didn't help him cope with his sudden decision. He came to a stop once she was out of sight, bending over with his hands on his knees, utterly disappointed that he wasn't feeling happy.

It was useless deliberating over feelings though; it had to be done.

Readying himself to continue down the path, Kharjo stopped at the sound of a battle in the distance. The breeze ruffled his fur, and he straightened, sniffing the wind as his ears circled on his head. _Could it be the bandits?_ he wondered. Sprinting, Kharjo followed his ears and ran off the path towards the cries. As he neared, he noticed the angry shout of a woman and the jesting of a man.

"You call yourself a Nord?!"

He crouched, readying himself –

"Oof!"

The body of a woman flew towards him, catching him completely off-guard. She landed into his torso and he grabbed her tight as they tumbled backwards, thrown by the force of her flight. Once they had stopped, he flung her off his chest, winded, and she looked up at him groggily. He could tell instantly from her appearance she wasn't a bandit – for one, she was clean.

The woman pushed herself up, breathing heavily and glaring at him. Bandit or not, if Skyrim had taught him anything, it was not to be too trusting. With that thought, he pulled out his sword, placing the tip under her chin and turning her face upwards as she straightened.

"Who are you?" he growled.

She held up her hands submissively, palms outstretched, yet still maintained her steady glare. "I'm not your enemy Khajiit," she said, voice level and confident. "My name is Morrígan."

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**A/N: Confused? Don't freak out, I'll explain in the coming chapter... I updated this so quick because I probably won't be able to update for another week, exams etc... Reviews are appreciated and thank you for your support so far! See you next time!**

**WK**


	5. From Blade to Blade

**A/N: This was very, very hard to write. Special thanks to reviewer K19 for giving me a confidence boost. **

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**5. From Blade to Blade**

She never even made it to Markarth.

Out of all the thoughts that were circling through Morrígan's head as the blade pressed further against her cheek, this was the one that would not leave her alone. Were her questions forever to be unanswered? Perhaps she would see her mother in the afterlife and there she could finally confront her... But no, this was as unlikely as Vilkas letting her run free. Her mother would have surely nestled in Sovngarde, like a true Nord lady, and Morrígan... Another fate awaited the witch; one not so innocent, she was sure.

_Maybe Apocrypha? _she thought, mind wandering to the Daedric Prince that she had long admired. _Is that where I would find my past? In a book, buried under the grotesque?_

Refusing to allow herself to accept defeat, she wriggled, putting her hands on Vilkas' chest and weakly attempting to push him away. She was not letting her life end this way; she had to know who – or what – she was. She had to get to Markarth.

Vilkas moved closer to her, face now just centimetres away, the blade pressing even harder against her face. Tears spilled from her eyes in response to the pain, yet Morrígan willed herself to stay strong. She pushed harder with her hands, but Vilkas did not budge, standing firm on the ground.

"I should just kill you now," he snarled.

Morrígan gasped as the Skyforge sword dug even deeper. "Do it."

Vilkas hesitated, unsure how to respond to her unexpected request. The woman let her hands fall, realising her resistance to his large form was as futile as throwing snow at an ice wraith. The sword was cool against the warmth of her blood, and she closed her eyes, preparing for the steel to be plunged through her heart.

_Skyforge steel_.

Her eyes snapped open.

_Steel._

Time seemed to slow as Vilkas raised the sword from her cheek, readying for his fatal blow. Realising she had nothing to lose, Morrígan's hand shot up, catching the side of Vilkas' face with her outstretched palm and pushing his head to the side. He cried out, forcing her back with the hand at her throat. They struggled against each other for what seemed like an age, Vilkas keeping his sword steadily poised in the air. With all the strength the witch could muster, Morrígan forced herself forward, grabbing the end of his blade in her palm. She hissed aloud from the pain as she felt it cut through her skin.

Vilkas grunted from the effort of holding the woman back. "What are you—?"

Suspended momentarily, Morrígan thought. She hadn't used this destruction spell before, and she knew that she did not know it well enough or have the willpower to use it on Vilkas alone. All she wanted, however, was for him to drop the weapon.

Her hand sparked, and she watched in awe as the electricity shot down the blade, stopping at Vilkas' hand. He let go of the sword instantly, swearing at the top of his lungs from the shock. Morrígan released her grip on the weapon, pushing her weight into the tree he held her against and placing her two feet in the middle of his chest. With all her might, she pushed Vilkas back, beyond relieved to feel his hand reluctantly dethatch itself from her clothing.

Free, she collapsed on her knees, looking up just in time to see the man stumbling towards his dropped weapon. Morrígan lurched forward, wrapping her hand around his ankle and pulling him down to her. Vilkas lashed out in response, forearm colliding with the side of her face with the force of a horker. Stars swam before her eyes, but she forced herself up, grabbing a hold of his long hair for leverage. He cried out in pain, shocked long enough for her to leap in front of his kneeling form.

Awkwardly falling forward, Morrígan didn't break pace as she swooped down to collect the sword. Grabbing the one-handed weapon in both her hands due to her weak and dizzy disposure, she turned to find Vilkas now standing aggressively opposite her. A dark and menacing look spread across his features as he looked down to the sword.

She could feel herself shaking, sword wobbling unsteadily in her grip. Vilkas laughed darkly.

"Do not be foolish now, witch," he sneered.

"You aren't in the right position to be saying that," she retorted; however her heart was not in it, voice wavering from the truth of his words.

Vilkas laughed again, darker, deeper. She narrowed her eyes, noticing the sudden heaviness of his breathing. His chest rose and fell in a rhythmical pattern, but there was a low growl behind his breathing that even she, a few metres away, could hear. Her hands began to shake harder as she watched his fists opening and closing, a slow, wolfish smile spreading across his shadowy features.

"I don't think that is how this works," he said. She could hear his words form into a growl as they left his mouth.

Morrígan stepped back, all confidence she may have previously felt draining fast. She could drop the weapon and run, but running away from him would just lead her straight into the mouth and fire of a dragon.

_And if I run to the side, he'll catch me in no time_. She closed her eyes, hissing in desperation at this thought, mind working overtime to think of a plan.

There was none. Opening her eyes, she watched as Vilkas took a small step forward.

Grinning like a manic from the Riften ratway, he took yet another step forward, chest rising and falling faster. She could barely feel the ground beneath her feet, her terror was that great.

A droplet of her blood dripped off her cheek, falling unnoticed on her hands gripping the sword. She had completely forgotten about the cut on her face, the pain barely registering anymore due to the scene around her. Vilkas, however, had not forgotten, looking down at her hand then back up at her. He sniffed, long and slow, eyes glowing dull amber.

_Amber?_ she questioned. _Didn't he have blue eyes?_

He grinned again and she gasped, dropping the sword and whirling around. Morrígan launched herself up the hill, the worries of the dragon battle the last thing on her mind. She heard Vilkas roar in rage, followed by the hurried pounding of his feet. She had just managed to stumble to the top of the hill when Vilkas' hand wrapped around her wrist.

The dragon was on the ground, metres away, but she paid it no mind. Twisting out of the Companion's grasp, she turned, hand flying up to his head. She clipped Vilkas' eyebrow, doing virtually no damage. He grabbed her wrist again, this time squeezing it hard.

She shrieked, looking up at his towering form. His eyes continued to glow amber and his teeth appeared to be sharpening.

_Sharpening?_

"What are you?" she breathed.

It seemed Vilkas was beyond human speech now. He released the low growl that was caught in his throat, but something behind her had caught his eye. She tilted her head, turning to see the dragon raising its wings before letting them gracefully fall. It let out a loud, mournful roar, before collapsing into a pile just below the Western Watchtower.

"We killed it!" a guard shouted joyfully, completely oblivious to the frozen witch and Companion, just metres away. "I could sure use a drink."

"'Course you could, you drunkard," another responded sulkily. "I think I dislocated my shoulder..."

"We'll go see Danica in the—"

"By the gods."

Vilkas.

His voice had returned to its normal bitter inflection and she turned, relieved to see two blue eyes staring to a point behind her that she could not face in her current imprisonment. His grip loosened, eyes widening at whatever it was in awe. She cared not for it, however. Snatching away from him, Morrígan turned, running towards the path and away from Whiterun. She heard Vilkas roar in anger, but it was drowned out by another, louder and more somber howl from the dead dragon.

"Dovahkiin! No!"

Morrígan froze, watching fearfully as the dragon she stood near erupted into flames. The scales burned, flaking away into ash and turning into a gorgeous golden aurora.

A gorgeous aurora that was heading directly towards her.

Screaming, Morrígan stumbled over her own feet before breaking into a terrified sprint. The light encased her, dancing around her body before absorbing into her small form. She gasped from the shock as images flashed before her – recollections of a land burning, rocks falling from the sky and men praying to dragons, chanting –

The memories stopped as sudden as they had begun, the path to Whiterun slowly materialising before her eyes.

"By the gods! You're the Dragonborn, aren't you?"

She turned to see Ireleth and the guards gathered in a line. The elf's eyes watched her with extreme caution, but Morrígan cared not.

Behind her stood Vilkas.

Without stopping to answer the guard or see if what he said was true, Morrígan turned, running down the path and away from the Watchtower. She had nothing – no coin, no weapon – but she had to get away from the Companion and this was her only chance. She didn't slow until he was out of sight, and even then the witch took the path with a fast jog.

Morrígan reached an area where trees began to line the path, replacing the Whiterun plains with thick grey pine forests. She turned back to the direction of Whiterun, relieved to see that Vilkas had not followed her.

Still hesitant, Morrígan took the safe route off the path, just in case. She was beginning to feel pain in areas she didn't even know existed, and exhausted she leant against a nearby tree, sinking to the ground. A cave was near her but there was no movement around, and she felt relatively safe. She stayed there for a few minutes, catching her breath and praying to Hermaeus that it was over.

Beneath her and behind, the trees and land began to quake, as if responding to her prayer. She gasped, hands digging into the dirt. _Oh my gosh, why did I think praying to a Daedric Prince was a good idea?_

"_Dovahkiin."_

It was merely a whisper, but the sound rumbled through the land. She squeezed her eyes shut, mouth moving wordlessly as she prayed to every god she could think of. If she were to die now, she could definitely write it off as fate. But just as she resigned to the afterlife, the ground stopped moving, settling into its usual stillness. Her eyes snapped open and she looked around.

Morrígan lifted her hands, touching the cut on her face tenderly and wincing. Well, she was definitely still alive, but what in Oblivion had just happened?

Pushing herself up, she wandered over to the entrance of the cave. Morrígan bit her lip, glancing around and deliberating on whether she should stay the night here. It appeared safe enough, but it stank of death.

Running a hand through her tangled mess of hair and blood, she sighed. _What can I do?_ she moaned inwardly. She was not too thrilled at the thought of spending the night alone if Vilkas were still out to get her, and she wasn't that keen on staying in a cave if the earthquake started again.

_But it wasn't an earthquake ... Someone had said something. _Something_ had said something._

Grumbling at herself to stop being so superstitious and grow up, Morrígan prepared to walk further in the forest, ready to find some wood and hopefully food. However, just as her confidence rose, she was falling to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs.

_What _now_?_

Morrígan rolled over with a grunt to see what she had tripped over, and found herself looking directly into the cold, lifeless eyes of a wolf corpse.

_Well, that explains the smell._

She scrambled up, stomach swimming with nausea at the overwhelming stench that filled her nostrils. Her eyes began to water and she closed her eyes, trying her hardest to ignore the urge to vomit.

"Take care of her."

Morrígan's eyes snapped open at the sound of a man's gruff voice, horrified to see before her four bandits. Three of them walked casually past, barely paying her mind and making their way into the cave on her left, but one laughed happily, withdrawing a steel sword from his side.

She shot her hands out towards the wolf corpse, the body lighting up that familiar, comforting blue. It was too slow to rise to her summoning however, and the man charged forward, screaming something she couldn't quite catch. Realising her imminent death, Morrígan jumped to her side, blade grazing her leather armour and leaving quite a gash. She was relieved to see that it had missed her skin, but the man's form collided into her shoulder, sending her tiny body flying backwards into the forest.

She cried out, trying to catch herself on a tree, but it was useless. Just as she was preparing for death by rock, her back collided on something with a loud _clang._ Arms wrapped around her torso as she and the thing – _person_? – rolled backwards, thrown by her force.

She stopped with her back on his chest and a heavy _THUD_. Whoever it was threw her off as if they had been electrified. She blinked, working hard to regain her senses.

_Get up_, a voice in her head hissed. _It could be Vilkas_.

Her eyes opened from this horrifying thought and she rose to her feet, the blurry figure before her forming a ... _cat_? She blinked, staring at a Khajiit male who was watching her with a confused and curious eye. If he was a bandit, he made no move to harm her like the one by the cave before. He stood in clean, steel-plate armour, shield hanging loosely by his side as he appraised her.

As if realising that she could be a danger, the Khajiit whipped out his sword in one fluent move. He placed the tip under her chin, careful not to hurt her.

"Who are you?"

She frowned, raising her hands slowly to show she was unarmed. Was it possible she could reason with the man?

Speaking with considerably more confidence than she felt, Morrígan attempted to defuse the situation. "I'm not your enemy, Khajiit. My name is Morrígan."

His ears twitched. She could see him hesitating, and taking the opportunity she placed her hand on his blade, guiding it down from her face. He relented, bringing down the sword the rest of the way and sheathing it; his eyes, however, did not stop appraising her.

"I've had too many near misses with death today. I'd like to avoid another."

To her surprise, the man chuckled. "This one agrees."

Morrígan tilted her head. "What is 'this one's' name?" she asked curiously.

His eyes darkened slightly and she wondered if she had pushed her luck too soon. However, whatever answer he was preparing to give her was cut off by a low growl behind him.

Morrígan looked up, stunned to see that her reanimated wolf was still alive. _Seems my spells have become more powerful._ She was unsure what to think about this, but wasn't able to deliberate on it for too long, as her wolf began to charge towards them, ready to attack.

And it was heading straight for the back of the Khajiit.

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**A/N: As I said before, really hard to write. Some of you may have noticed the change in style (Morrigan's thought patterns) to help me write this blasted chapter. What do you guys think of it? Yay or nay for the rest of the story?**


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